


Roll the Dice

by menecio



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Blanket Permission, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, POV James T. Kirk, Pining, Post-Star Trek Beyond, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-14 14:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9186677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menecio/pseuds/menecio
Summary: The thing about James Tiberius Kirk is that he’s brave for some things and a total coward for others. Despite how much he loves teasing Spock over his emotional constipation—pardon him, Spock’sVulcan upbringing—he can’t really claim to be any better at dealing with his own feelings.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For stnetwork’s 2017 Gift Exchange on tumblr. [My giftee](https://hellhales.tumblr.com/) asked for platonic McCoy/Kirk and romantic Spock/Kirk. This was a lot of fun to write! Lots of love to my sweet toakenshire for the editing and emotional support.

The bar is small and dim. It has a low ceiling and no windows in sight. Red emergency lights bleed over the walls at regular intervals. There is no music and the few patrons present speak in hushed tones over their drinks. In spite of the atmosphere, which is unusually subdued for a bar, Jim finds himself liking the place. By far, Bones and he are probably the noisiest people in the room. They’re just talking, but they’re used to louder places, so they default to raising their voices without noticing.

Tonight, being quiet is particularly difficult due to the topic of their conversation. Jim peers down at his drink, making a soft sound of protest at the back of his throat, and tries to tune out Bones and his so-called words of wisdom. He wonders if he can pretend he’s going to the bathroom and dump his friend.

“Look, all I’m saying is— _ask him_.”

“Um, no? I don’t want to die.”

“That’s not what’s gonna happen, Jim.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Actually—” Bones breaks off with a sigh. “Look, just do it. Ask him. He might say yes.”

“He might say no.”

“So?”

“So I’ll die if he says no, Bones.”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re an embarrassment, that’s what.”

“A serious embarrassment,“ Jim corrects, then grimaces as Bones starts laughing. “Wait, no, that didn’t come out the way I wanted.”

“Truest statement I’ve ever heard from you,” Bones says, ignoring him.

“Stop being an asshat.”

“Stop being a wimp.”

“Wow, a wimp. I’m hurt.”

“Jim, I can’t believe I’m saying this to a decorated Starfleet captain, but you’re acting like a goddamn teen with his first crush.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Jim sticks his tongue out at Bones, who snorts and downs his drink. “Infant.”

The thing about James Tiberius Kirk is that he’s brave for some things and a total coward for others. Despite how much he loves teasing Spock over his emotional constipation—pardon him, Spock’s _Vulcan upbringing_ —he can’t really claim to be any better at dealing with his own feelings. He tends to shove them into boxes and bury them deep inside. Everyone’s safer that way, Jim thinks.

He takes a nip of his glass, licking his lips as the alcohol burns down his throat. It’s been some time since he last drank something this strong. Chekov’s scotch is nothing compared to whatever it is Bones ordered for them. Jim holds up the glass and looks at the clear green liquid, swirling it slowly.

“What’d you say this was called?”

“Double Stardrifter.” Bones watches as the bartender refills his glass. The bottle is parted in half lengthways, allowing for the two components that make up the drink—one blue and the other yellow—to mix together at even levels. “Good, ain’t it?”

“I feel like it’s blowing holes into my oesophagus.”

“It probably is.”

Jim stares at Bones, then punches his arm when the medic starts laughing again. “Fuck you.”

“Do you really think I’d give you something that’d burn holes into your organs? I have to fix those, you know. And I’ve honestly seen enough of your insides to last me a lifetime, so no.”

“I don’t get torn open that often.”

“Often enough,” Bones says, his tone taking on a grave edge.

Jim shrugs. He is sure Bones keeps track of all the times he’s been to sickbay with a life-threatening wound, so he isn’t about to start an argument on whether his medic is wrong or right. The odds aren’t in his favour. He downs what’s left of his drink instead, and turns down the bartender’s offer for a refill.

His vision sways when he looks back up at Bones. He feels a bit blurry, jagged edges softened by the effect a single glass of Double Stardrifter is having on his body. He didn’t feel this drunk three seconds ago.

“Strong stuff, that,” Jim says. He points at Bones’s glass, watches as his friend brings it to his lips and takes a long swig. “That drifter thingy.”

Bones sets his glass down with a contented sigh, then eyes him. “Since when are you a lightweight?”

“Always.”

“You used to drink everyone under the table back at the Academy.”

“Oh, no.” Jim chuckles. “No, I cheated.”

“What? How?”

“Ginger ale,” Jim admits. He purses his lips. “And kvas sometimes.”

“Well,” Bones says. He leans back against his stool, looking like a child who has just found out someone ate all the cake. “Well,” he repeats.

“I like my liver. I’m not an idiot.”

“No, just a serious embarrassment,” Bones says, then starts guffawing.

“I think you’ve had enough of the drifter thingy too,” Jim mutters, pushing Bones’s glass away from him. His friend doesn’t complain, just signals the bartender to bring their bill with a smirk. “Please tell me you’ve got a cure for the hangover I’m certain to have in the morning.”

“No cure, we die like men.”

Bones staggers out of his stool and helps Jim get off his. It’s been months since Krall, but one of Jim’s knees still causes him pain every now and then despite nothing being physically wrong with it. Bones has recommended seeing a therapist, has grumbled about psychosomatic wounds and phantom pains, but Jim remains adamant. The pain will go away when it’s ready to go away. There’s no point in rushing it.

The artificial climate is pleasant outside, and so they stroll back to the _Enterprise_ at a leisure pace. Starbase 375 is about as large as Yorktown, but that’s where the similarities end. Where Yorktown is gleaming and luscious, 375 is stark and pragmatic. Jim remembers how Yorktown had been a white palace, and thinks that it’s a great difference from the dark fortress that is 375. It makes sense, considering that Yorktown is meant to be a more civilian establishment and 375 is a combat outpost standing watch over the Neutral Zone.

“I hate this place,” Bones mutters.

“It’s not what I’d call a tourist spot,” Jim agrees.

The hallways are large and lit only by emergency lights. The engineers have been having a hard time restoring the power after the latest Klingon attack, which is why the USS _Enterprise_ was asked to drop by with supplies and lend Scotty to the station’s staff for a while. It’s also why the flagship’s crew hasn’t been given lodgings in the starbase, instead being asked to remain on the ship. Jim was allowed to go to the bar with a companion only for tonight, and so he has stuffed his and Bones’s pockets with peanut packets to hand around the bridge. The shortage is on energy, after all, not food.

Not many people bump into them, but the ones that do are all polite if a bit curt. The whole starbase feels kind of eerie in its strictness. Jim and his crew are no strangers to the defence side of Starfleet, but they are all much more used to dealing with the nerd side. At least the stars just outside are as beautiful as always. Jim steps closer to the long, narrow, heavily riveted windows, dragging Bones along.

“Nice view, though, right?”

“I guess.”

“What do you mean you guess, you excuse of a Human being?”

“If you want to stargaze with someone who’ll appreciate the deadly balls of fire as much as you do, why don’t you invite Spock along next time instead of me?”

Jim begins walking down the hallway again. “I’m not doing this.”

“At least he’s _half_ a Human being!” Bones jogs up to his side. “Seriously, just ask the damn goblin.”

“No.”

“How about yes?”

“How about I punch you in the mouth?” Jim snaps. They arrive at the end of the hallway and Jim calls the lift. Due to the power emergency, it isn’t turbo, so they stand there for about five seconds, waiting, the air around them charged, before Jim says, “You’ve got no business telling me who to take out on a date, so drop it already.”

“You’ve been setting me up on blind dates since we met. I think I’ve got the right to tell you to grow a pair and ask Spock out already,” Bones retorts. He tries to pocket his hands and remembers the peanuts with a grimace. “Do you think the idea of you two dating makes me happy? It doesn’t. It makes me want to puke. But it’s obvious there’s something going on or whatever, so the least you can do is make that jump.”

“No.”

“You goddamn infant.”

“Look, I’ll sort it out. Just back off, all right?”

“All right, fine.” Bones slings an arm over Jim’s shoulders and sighs. “I hate being drunk.”

“You aren’t that drunk.”

“Shut up, I’m drunk.”

“Whatever. You love being drunk anyway.”

“Yeah, but not the consequences of being drunk. It means I can have this kind of talks,” Bones mumbles against his shoulder. He grunts and shifts so most of his weight is resting on Jim’s good side. “About feelings and stuff.”

Jim snorts as they enter the lift. Since the space station is huge, the trip down to the _Enterprise_ takes a few minutes. They don’t speak during that time. Bones snores quietly into the crook of Jim’s neck, and Jim wonders how Bones can fall asleep standing. He concludes it must be a doctor thing.

Jim remembers his mum standing watch over him when he was little and had nightmares about exploding starships. She would drag a chair over, cross her arms, and fall asleep like that. He always thought that position was uncomfortable and hard enough to keep, but Bones’s days as a resident physician clearly have taught him tricks Jim’s mother never learnt.

They board the _Enterprise_ and head straight for their quarters. The alcohol in their systems makes them stumble sleepily down the white and bright corridors, so different from Starbase 375’s hallways. Jim squints against the lights, fumbling with his door’s keypad before staggering to the bed and dropping face-first onto it.

“Scootch, you caveman,” Bones says, pushing at Jim until he too is lying down.

“This isn’t your room, Bones.”

“I’m not walking another step tonight,” the medic tells him, grabbing one of Jim’s pillows and placing it under his head. “If you want me in my room, you’ll have to take me there.”

Jim thinks about it. “Okay, you win this time.”

“I always win.”

“Bullshit.”

“Shut up.”

Jim sniggers, then says, “I’ve got peanuts in my pockets.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

“You’ve got peanuts in your pockets too.”

Bones groans.

They shuffle around for about a minute, pulling packets out of their regulation trousers and tossing them in the general direction of Jim’s night stand. From the sound of it, most packets end up scattered on the floor rather than on the small table. Jim can’t bring himself to care. It isn’t like their being on the floor is hurting anyone’s sensibilities, and the bridge crew will never know their gifts spent a night on the floor of captain Kirk’s quarters, so it doesn’t really matter.

Jim toes out of his boots. He wriggles his feet against the mattress and grabs a pillow for himself, pinning it under his belly. With another sigh, he closes his eyes. Next to him, he feels Bones roll onto his back and pull his boots off, then the bed shakes when his friend throws them across the room. They thunk against Jim’s closet.

“All right,” Jim says, not opening his eyes.

“I said shut up.”

“All right.” Jim grins. “Goodnight, Bones.”

“Yeah, sweet dreams.” After a beat, he adds, “Stay on your side.”

“This is my bed,” Jim points out. “All sides are my side.”

“I mean it, Jim.”

“Fine,” he laughs. “Goodnight.”

* * *

 The peanuts are a success with the bridge crew. Jim was capable of stuffing enough packets to give one to each person, which is a very strange and remarkable feat indeed considering the tightness of the Starfleet trousers and the tininess of their pockets. There is a chance that he stole two packets from Bones, but it isn’t like Bones is expected to hand out gifts to the whole sickbay staff. The only time he did was when Nurse Chapel was still on board, and Jim isn’t sure how much of a gift chewing tobacco can be.

In any case, the crew talks about the peanuts for weeks. It kind of becomes an inside joke, even. Jim pats himself on the back for keeping his people’s spirits high while they were stuck in Starbase 375. Those were nineteen hellish days, and he hopes they never have to return to that base. It just wasn’t their style.

Being locked up on the ship while being on a base didn’t help either. It is one thing to live inside a ship while cruising space; another completely different is to be forced to remain within it while having the possibility of going out to stretch one’s legs. Everyone was skittish after the first week. Jim will never forget how stiff Spock was with Jim the day after his escapade to 375’s bar. Bones was on the receiving end of Spock’s stink-eye that morning, but unlike Jim, Bones didn’t care if Spock was pissed with him.

Jim rubs his eyes, trying to hide the small smile on his face. Spock’s face when Bones and Jim stumbled out of his room that morning was priceless. He looked, of all things, betrayed, and Jim wanted to tell him that he couldn’t say anything after all the times Jim had had to put up with Uhura leaving Spock’s bedroom just down the hall. He started to tell Spock as much but only got out about three words before Bones smacked him upside the head and told him to get to work.

“Captain?” Jim bolts upright at his First Officer’s voice. “Is something the matter?”

“Nope,” Jim says. “Everything’s fine.”

Spock gives him a sceptical look but turns back to his console without another comment. Jim resists the urge to sigh with relief. Sulu clears his throat in a subpar attempt to hide a laugh. Jim glares at him and gets back to what he was doing, eyes skimming over the available information of this sector of the quadrant. There isn’t a lot, and many of the things mentioned either contradict themselves or don’t make sense altogether. Their month-long exploratory mission of this area is bound to be interesting for everyone.

“Lieutenant Uhura, please keep a close eye on those frequencies and report anything out of the ordinary. Mister Sulu, continue to the planet Samasun at impulse speed.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Jim swipes his thumb over a control on his chair’s armrest, pulling up a series of files on their destination. “How long till we reach it?”

“We are eleven hours away from the planet Samasun at impulse speed, Captain,” Chekov pipes up, sending Jim the calculations. “With no obstacles in our path, we should be making good time to arrive.”

“Great.” That means he won’t be on duty when they arrive, which means he’ll be on duty anyway because protocol says the captain must be present during diplomatic missions. He props his chin on one hand and resists the urge to sigh. “Thank you, Mister Chekov.”

Jim starts rereading the reports on Samasun, one of the few things that they know best about this sector: it is warp-capable, rich in resources, and divided into nations that don’t unanimously wish to join the Federation. The USS _Enterprise_ is meant to see if an agreement can be reached, or leave the planet well alone if the opposers remain inflexible. The last thing the Federation wants is to be responsible for a worldwide civil war. In cases like this, only a mercantile relationship is established, with the political union happening naturally later on. Jim mulls over that, flicking a finger over the reports and skimming over the texts. Not a lot he can do, he muses, or his crew. Just look pretty and hope for the best.

When he reaches the last page of the last report, he closes those files and opens the planet’s picture gallery. It’s scant, but the few images are beautiful. Samasun is a wonderful planet with mild latitudes, which has allowed for a huge amount of temperate forests and rainforests to take over its surface. Rather than raze the vegetation and build their cities, the natives have developed an architectural method which works with and around the landscape, blending their structures and buildings into it and causing as little damage to its natural features as possible. Jim finds it lovely, and thinks Spock will like it too.

 _Ask him,_ Bones’s voice echoes in his mind, and Jim shoves it down in a panic. He squirms in his seat and glances to his right. Spock is focused on whatever is on his console. He doesn’t seem to have noticed anything. Which is how it should be, because Jim and Spock don’t have a mind-link. This means that Spock can’t read Jim’s thoughts unless they are touching and Spock lowers his shields, which has happened less than a dozen times in all the years they have known each other, and never by accident. So this fear of having his thoughts overheard is just plain stupid.

Despite this, Jim continues to monitor what he is thinking until Alpha Shift is over. When the people for the next shift arrive, he leaves the bridge with Spock and Chekov. Sulu has another hour before being relieved, and Uhura has Gamma Shift for the rest of the month thanks to that little stunt with the Jefferies tubes and confetti cannons she and Scotty pulled two days before. Jim has to admit it was hilarious and impressive—he wasn’t aware the replicators could produce confetti cannons—but he can’t let slide a joke that sent the ship into red alert for thirty-eight seconds before they understood they weren’t being attacked.

Chekov steps out of the turbolift on Deck 11, babbling about lunch with his latest partner—this one seems to be going steady—as he practically prances down the hallway. Jim chuckles when the lift’s doors shut. He rubs at his eyes, repressing a yawn. He always gets sleepy around noon. He tells Spock as much, who raises an eyebrow at him when he breaks off mid-sentence to yawn again. They exit the turbolift and Jim waves at a group of ensigns that was waiting right outside. They greet him and Spock as and shuffle into the lift, the door whooshing closed behind them.

In the sudden quiet, Jim looks at Spock. Spock raises his eyebrow again. “I believe the reason you tend to grow tired at this time of day is due to the fact that you fall asleep at odd hours of the night, Captain. Perhaps a more standardised sleep schedule that meets the minimum required hours of sleep a Human needs would help you feel less somnolent during noon.”

“I’ll have you know I go to bed early,” Jim sniffs, adding in a mutter, “Then I read trashy novels until three a.m. and fall asleep with my PADD on my face. But that’s not a bad thing! Being well-read is good.”

“I am uncertain how well-read one can be when reading ‘trashy novels,’ Captain.”

Jim laughs, his heart performing the fluttery backflip it does when Spock’s dry humour makes an appearance. “All right, you got me there. But at least I read, right?”

“An agreeable leisure pursuit.”

“I stayed up a bit later than usual last night because I wanted to finish this book I’m reading. It’s really something else. Are you familiar with _Sir Gawain and the Green Knight_?”

“Affirmative.”

“Well, think that, but in space. There’s a lot more to it than that but—yeah. You should read it. Then we can scream about it. Or, well, I can scream and you can not-scream. It’ll be fun.”

Spock glances at Jim. “I shall add it to my reading list.”

“Nice.” Jim licks his lips, grinning, then shakes himself. “It’s in the ship’s database, so you can get it from there.”

Spock nods and, without warning, stops walking. Jim stops as well, giving a little ‘whoops’ and backtracking to be by Spock’s side. He smiles when he notices the faraway look his First Officer has on his face. Sometimes this will happen: Spock will space out in the middle of a hallway as he realises something about an experiment the Science Department is performing, or finally gets a joke that someone told him four months ago, or contemplates a possibility about something that he hadn’t so far considered. Then he will blink and either make a statement that doesn’t have to do with anything presently occurring or pick up where he left off as if the conversation had never come to a halt.

Jim slides a foot forward and nudges one of Spock’s boots. “Earth to Spock.”

That snaps Spock out of his reverie. “Captain, you are not planet Earth.”

“You’d know,” Jim chuckles.

“Have you procured nourishment for yourself yet?” his First Officer asks, quite abruptly.

“No. Have you?”

“I have.”

“Oh.”

Jim was hoping Spock would eat with him, but it makes sense his First Officer will want some quiet time in his quarters after having worked two shifts in a row. Spock doesn’t need sleep like Humans do, but meditation is like breathing to him. Jim stands there, trying to wrestle down his disappointment while growing increasingly concerned about the intense way in which Spock is looking at him. He shifts, crossing his arms to avoid fidgeting with his hands.

“I’ll see you later, then.”

An expression flickers through Spock’s face, so fast that Jim only understands it because he has seen it before—betrayal. Jim wonders why the hell Spock would feel like that when he’s the one who’s ditching Jim to have a secluded lunch. Something that feels like grinding chunks of ice rattles around his stomach. Oh, God, Jim hopes Spock isn’t having lunch with Uhura. Have they decided to get back together? Jim thought their latest breakup was the last breakup. It seemed pretty definitive, despite Spock’s telling her to keep his mother’s pendant and Uhura’s fingers curled around his wrist during Jim’s birthday party.

Before he can ask Spock about it, the Vulcan has already given him a curt farewell nod and is walking down the hallway. Spock’s quarters aren’t that way. Spock’s quarters aren’t even on this deck. Which means Spock is having lunch someplace else. Uhura’s quarters aren’t on this deck either.

Jim rubs his forehead, trying to remember if there’s a romantic spot somewhere nearby. He comes up blank. Annoyed, he decides to shrug it off and heads for the common mess hall. Rather than chowing down a sandwich over stacks of PADDs containing nothing but red tape with Yeoman Rand until evening, today he has the luxury of enjoying a decent meal with his crew. And he intends to enjoy it, damn it. That’s his plan at least, but then a shadow springs out of nowhere.

“So have you asked him yet?”

Jim whips around, barely containing a shriek. “Shit, Bones, I almost break your nose.”

“You aren’t coordinated enough for that.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jim grumbles and resumes walking. “What do you want?”

“To know if you’ve asked him yet, even though you clearly haven’t.”

“Asked what to whom?”

“Do you really want me to get specific in the middle of a hallway during shift change?”

“Good point. No, I don’t.” Jim pulls out his comm and pretends to be checking something on its screen. “And no, I haven’t. Good day, Mister Kotzé, Miss Mahi’ai.” He smiles as he walks past the ensigns, then gives Bones an innocent look. “I’ve been sorta busy being the captain of an interplanetary organisation’s flagship. Weirdly enough, it’s a very time-consuming job.”

“If you’ve got time to play tag with me on your ship, then you could certainly squeeze in a candlelit dinner somewhere in your busy schedule.”

“Candlelit?” Jim sputters. He narrows his eyes at Bones. “You said you’d back off.”

“Because I was under the impression you weren’t such a slow idiot. You could’ve asked him just now to have lunch together. The opportunity was right there.”

“Are you stalking me?”

“No, I just had the misfortune of witnessing that particularly serious embarrassment.”

Jim glares at his friend, shoving his comm back into his pocket as he considers his options. With a sigh, he resigns himself to eating pita pockets by his lonesome yet again and takes a sharp turn left, away from the mess hall. He hopes Bones will just continue on his path toward food and socialising and leave him alone. The promise of nourishment and a fresh group of people that he can intimidate after a long shift is usually enough to have Bones put on hold whatever business he has with Jim.

This time, Bones follows right after him without a second thought. Jim makes a little frustrated sound that Bones ignores. They walk down the hallway in no particular direction, but for some reason Jim feels like he’s being led into a trap. He takes a turn right at random. Bones follows without saying anything, which is downright suspicious. Jim begins to wonder if his friend has something seriously bad in store for him. Maybe the meddling is just a smokescreen to lower his guard.

“Are you really that into playing Cupid now?” Jim asks. “Or is this about that time with the curly straw on Hemalui Seven? Because I already apologised for that.”

“What?”

Jim leans away from Bones’s scalding look. “Nothing.”

“You know, I’d forgotten about that. Now that you reminded me, though, I’ll make sure you pay for it in some way. My nose hurt for days after that goddamn ‘trick’ of yours.”

“I already said I’m sorry.” Jim pouts. “The straw wasn’t supposed to—”

“Not listening,” Bones interrupts. “You need to eat.”

“So do you.”

“I didn’t skip breakfast this morning, though.”

“How did— Neither did I.”

“Yeah, pull the other one.” Bones takes out a small tin box from his back pocket—sewed on, not regulation—and pops it open. There are colourful pills in it, round and flat like buttons, and Jim recognises them before Bones tells him what they are. “All right, starboy, I’ve got meatloaf, lasagna, and vegetable soup. Which one d’you want?”

“Meatloaf.”

“Vegetable soup it is, then.”

They come to a halt in the middle of the hallway. Jim accepts the pill, yellowish and speckled with green and red. He swallows it without comment, then shows Bones his empty mouth to prove that he behaved. “There. Will you leave now?”

“Yeah. After reminding you to ask him.”

Jim stares, then huffs a laugh. He drags a hand down his face. “Okay, Bones, I need to know—why are you so invested in this? It makes no sense. You hate Spock. Not to mention you’ve always wanted to stay out of my love life but now you’re all over it. What gives?”

“I don’t hate Spock,” Bones argues. “I just hate the way he is.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“Look, I hate the way you are too, and you’re my best friend. What’s that say?”

“That you’re a sociopath and in need of a therapist.”

“Besides that.”

“That you hate me. Thanks for confirming it. I’m relieved. The scales have finally fallen from my eyes. All those unnecessary hypos over the years weren’t quite enough of a hint.”

“There’s another unnecessary hypo in your immediate future if you don’t start taking this conversation seriously.”

“You’re the one who’s avoiding the question!”

“Am I?” Bones’s eyes grow unfocused as he replays their conversation in his head. “Damn, I am. Well,” He claps Jim on the shoulder, “nothing you can’t live with. But seriously, Jim, ask him. He’ll say yes.”

“He’ll say no.”

“He’ll say yes, and that’s my opinion as an expert.”

“You’re divorced,” Jim reminds him. “You’re the farthest thing from an expert when it comes to these things!”

“Correction: I’m the closest thing to an expert.” Bones closes the tin box and pockets it once again. He wags a finger at Jim the way a grandfather might at his most mischievous grandchild. “I know all the stuff you gotta avoid doing in order to succeed and reach that happily ever after. First one: playing hard-to-get.”

“I’m not playing hard-to-get.”

Bones stares at him, then grimaces. “Good Lord.”

“What?”

“You really are a serious embarrassment.”

“Can you stop calling me that?”

“You called yourself that first.” Bones takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, change of plans. The first thing you gotta avoid doing is being stupid, so you basically need a complete personality overhaul.”

“Sorry to break it to you, but I’m not being stupid either.”

“He literally just asked you out.”

“He literally just said he’d already sorted out his lunch.”

“Which was an invitation for you to ask if you could maybe join him for it. Seriously, this is basic flirting stuff. How can you, the great intergalactic paramour, not know it?”

“Look, I know all this stuff, but that’s not how Spock is. He doesn’t go around being flirty with people. If he’s interested in you, he lets you know in a straightforward but private manner.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because that’s just how he is, Bones, _geez_. It takes two eyes to see how he behaves about anything, and last I checked, yours were in perfect working order. Look at him! He’s a very reserved guy with a very no-nonsense attitude. Of course he’s gonna be the same way when it comes to this.”

“You told me he made out with Uhura in front of you once, though.”

“She started that.”

“And you told me he cried when you—” Bones’s eyes flick down and to the side. He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders before speaking again, his tone quieter, “When you died.”

“You cried too.”

“Everyone cried, you thankless beast, but you know that’s not what I mean. This is Spock we’re talking about. The man has the emotional range of a teaspoon, maybe less, and he invests most of it in you.”

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose. “Bones.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” his friend snaps. “You know I’m right.”

“I don’t even know what you’re looking to achieve with all of this,” Jim sighs. He drops his hand and stares down the hallway, not looking at anything in particular. “Again I ask, what’s in it for you?”

“This isn’t about what’s in it for me, Jim.”

Something about Bones’s tone makes Jim turn his head to look at him. What he finds there isn’t the usual weary or exasperated expression Bones gets when Jim is being obtuse about something. Rather, there is a sort of softness that Jim witnesses almost never. That, more than anything, convinces Jim that whatever reason Bones has to meddle so much isn’t personal at all. Which is odd because Jim is sure his friend is allergic to other people's feelings, especially if they feature romance of any kind. He would never willingly get entangled in them if he can help it.

Jim sighs again, his head tilting back. The hallway’s perfect white ceiling is boring, but he feels like he doesn’t have the strength to do anything else other than stare at it all of a sudden. Bones sighs next to him, a mix between a groan and a grunt.

“I’ll back off,” Bones says, “but you gotta promise me you’ll do something about this.”

“I promise.”

“Really promise, Jim.”

“I really promise, Bones.”

Bones shakes his head and begins walking back down the hallway. “Fine, yeah, whatever. Just make sure you don’t take forever. Now, I’m gonna get lunch and so are you.”

“I just had veggie soup,” Jim says, but follows after his friend.

“That pill’s as useful as a boxload of bullhorns at a mime convention.”

“And how do you know that?”

Bones throws him a withering look. Jim laughs and wraps an arm around the blue-clad shoulders, already thinking about what he’s going to replicate for lunch. There’s a pang in his chest when he remembers Spock won’t be there. He wonders if getting a Vulcan dish to try and make up for his absence would be too pathetic. Probably, he decides, then settles on a plate of kleetanta with forati sauce. Captain James Kirk gives no fucks.

* * *

 The first thing Jim does upon beam-down is gape. The transporter room they materialised in is in fact more of an open dome: clean and smooth glass triangles curve up like petals into the sky, beams of morning sunlight gleaming off their polished edges. Beyond the glass, a jungle-like forest looms and engulfs them, with buildings carved into hollow trees, between branches, amongst roots. Being a starship’s captain means that he gets to see lots of worlds, but Jim doesn’t think he will ever stop feeling breathless wonder at the sight of a new landscape.

He looks around with wide-eyed delight. Beside him, Spock is more discrete in his appraisal. They approach the three dignitaries waiting for them, Tjunnyu, Chiovi, and Kayln. After a quick exchange of pleasantries, they get into a vehicle and head for the place where the diplomatic summit will be held. In the back, there are two rows of seats facing each other. Spock and Jim sit on one side of the coach, the three dignitaries sit opposite them. Once they’re all buckled in, the hovercraft drives off.

Jim can’t help but spend most of the ride looking out the window, pointing at things and talking about the Amazonia back on Earth. He avoids telling the dignitaries about how his kind almost destroyed it since he doesn’t think that would go down well with a species that cares about their planet’s nature so deeply. Still, he grows confident after he makes the more reluctant dignitary laugh, and he slips up:

“It used to be bigger, but we’ve almost managed to bring it back to its original size.”

“Is there a reason for the Amazonia to have shrunk?” trills Tjunnyu, the reluctant dignitary. The bushy antennae sticking out of her forehead tremble with curiosity. If someone asked Jim to describe the species, he would go with coati-moths.

“Good question,” Jim says, stalling. “Well— Actually, it’s a bit complex, really.”

“Foreign contaminants were introduced into Earth’s natural environments centuries ago,” Spock cuts in. “The Humans had not the capability to reverse the process on their own. With the development of warp technology and their alliance to a benevolent alien species, however, much of the damage has been repaired over the past two hundred years.”

Two of the dignitaries trill their approval and elation, with Tjunnyu wondering why anyone would poison Jim’s home planet. “Foolishness,” Jim replies, and glances at Spock, fighting to keep his small smile from blooming into a wide grin. ‘Benevolent alien species’ indeed. The Vulcans from the First Contact had basically treated Humanity as disobedient toddlers and proceeded to bully every single nation on the planet until everyone had committed to save Earth’s ecosystems. The Vulcans told it differently, but in the end that’s how it had gone down—logical bullying for the greater good.

“Spock here is a member of the benevolent alien species,” Jim says, sweeping a hand to encompass his First Officer. He ignores Spock’s frown and smiles at the dignitaries. “As you can see, our peoples remain on good terms even after two centuries of dealing with each other. We believe in the creation of long-lasting bonds, so we take pride in this.”

“We are glad for you,” says Chiovi, leaning forward from where he is sitting to Tjunnyu’s left. Of the three, he has been the most receptive to Jim’s diplomatic charms so far. “Perhaps our peoples could develop a bond as well, given time.”

“There’s always time in the universe,” Jim smiles. “Time and space are the two things that are never in short supply.”

The rest of the trip is spent with Jim asking questions about Samasun and its wonders. Spock participates little, looking content with just listening. He replies when the dignitaries try to bring him into the conversation, but he doesn’t encourage further exchanges. Typical Spock, if maybe a little more severe about his silence than usual. Jim decides to ask him about it when they’re alone, but decides to let it be for now. Spock can be as quiet as he want so long a he doesn’t come across as rude.

When they arrive at the place of the summit, a large structure of clear and opaque crystals weaving and fragmenting itself around what Jim’s mind can only think of as ‘one damn extra big-ass tree,’ they enter through what is called the Guest’s Entrance and on Earth would be dubbed the backdoor. It is to preserve their privacy, they are assured, and then ushered into a medium-sized room that is a mix between a lounge and a spa. Jim and Spock’s luggage is already here, a small suitcase with two PADDs and their Starfleet formalwear.

“We’ll leave you to your preparations,” says Kayln, the three dignitaries bowing.

Jim and Spock return the bow and the door slides closed. They are alone, but it won’t last long. Jim pulls out his comm and checks the time. They still have half a Standard hour to get ready for the summit. Luckily, there isn’t much to do. Only change into their fancy suits and go over what they will say—and not say—at the party. Jim calls the bridge to check in, asks how things are faring up there, and blows a noisy kiss into the speaker before hanging up when Sulu tells him to get back to his date already.

The suitcase opens once Jim and Spock press their thumbs to its sensor. For a fraction of a moment, their fingers touch, and a soft sort of hum tickles up Jim’s arm, and then it’s gone. He takes his hand back and cracks his fingers, shooting Spock a glance, but Spock isn’t looking at him. He is, in fact, grabbing one of the PADDs and turning it on to skim through its contents. Jim shrugs and pulls out his dress uniform, then furrows his brow.

“Spock?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Has the Fleet tux always been so shiny?”

Spock pauses his perusing of the PADD and redirects his attention to the jacket Jim is holding. It’s the same one he used in his graduation, and the same one he used in the memorial after the Marcus and Khan incident, and the same one he just knows he won’t be able to zip up tonight because seven months ago Scotty had the brilliant idea of making the replicator in the captain’s cabin capable of producing all sorts of pastries.

“Yes, Captain,” says Spock. “No one has replaced your dress uniform without your knowledge.”

“No need to make me sound so paranoid.”

“I am simply stating a fact.”

Because he is a very mature person, Jim mimics Spock under his breath, making him sound both sillier and more officious than he actually is. He sets down the jacket and steps back so he won’t hit anything with his raised arms. With practiced motions, he undoes the zip on his nape, then pulls off his command shirt. The black undershirt rides up with it instead of staying put.

Jim grunts in frustration and wrestles his head out of the golden shirt, tossing the item onto the table and pushing back down the offending piece of garment. He glances at Spock just in time to see his First Officer’s eyes flick back up to his face.

“So I put on some weight. Who cares?” Jim says, thinking that _he_ does. He’s never managed that slim streamlined look that most of his crew seems to pull off effortlessly: there’s always been a bit of a paunch cottoning his abs, the hint of love handles around his waistline. He’s always been self-conscious about that, and lately he’s been eating a lot of apple strudel, which is not a good combo. “We can’t all be Abercrombie gods.”

“Abercrombie?”

“Old Terran expression, I dunno.” He grabs his command shirt again, shakes it out, and folds it down. “Means you’re hot stuff.”

The confused crease between Spock’s eyebrows dissolves back into its usual neutrality. “Coming from you, that statement would be untrue. A Vulcan’s standard body temperature is eleven point forty-one percent colder than that of a Human’s.”

“Not literally hot stuff,” Jim grins, “smartass.”

Spock’s eyes flicker down and to the side, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I am pleased to hear that you find my physique aesthetically pleasing.”

“What?” Jim squeaks, more surprised than embarrassed by the fact that he can even hit such a high note. “No, I mean, yeah, but— I didn’t— I meant in general, not like, you know, like that. I mean, yes, but no.”

Spock’s face remains serene. “Yes or no, Jim?”

And now Spock is using his name. Jim tugs at the hem of the black undershirt, thinking of how to reply. It shouldn’t be hard; he just needs to say something noncommittal and move on. Maybe a bit flirty, to stay in character. He can totally pull it off without stuttering over the words. Make it casual.

Jim tries not to break into a sweat. What had Bones called him, again? Intergalactic casanova? He sure doesn’t feel like one now. But he _is_ James Tiberius Kirk, so he plasters on a lazy grin and runs a hand down his chest, as if smoothing away the wrinkles in the dark fabric.

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments,” he teases.

“I assure you, Captain, that I am not,” Spock replies, going back to his PADD. For some reason, Jim gets the idea that Spock seems annoyed. “There will be three hundred and fifty-seven Samasunean ambassadors at the summit, of which one hundred and fifty-six are opposed to joining the Federation.”

“That’s almost fifty percent.”

“Forty-three point eighty-seven,” Spock offers.

Jim grimaces. “It’s gonna be a bloodbath, isn’t it?” he asks, pushing down a sigh. Even though he doesn’t really need a reply, Spock still says, “We may presume as much.”

Jim lifts the silvery dress tunic from the suitcase and slips it on, shrugging on the jacket right after. It feels a bit constricting around his shoulders, and he is really dreading having to zip it up where Spock can see. He reaches back into the suitcase, fishing out all his medals and pins and whatnots. Then he sees the grey trousers and thinks, _Well, at least I’m wearing nice briefs._ He stops his himself before he can wonder if Spock is also wearing nice briefs.

Jim changes half-turned away from Spock, using his semi-privacy to finally zip up his jacket—the garment doesn’t feel uncomfortably snug, thank goodness, but he did have to suck in his belly. He vows to visit the gym and delete Scotty’s codes from his replicator.

When he turns back, Spock is already changed, neat as usual, his medals sitting prettily on his chest. Jim remembers his own little pile and hastens to do the same. He can feel Spock’s eyes on him, watching him fumble with his sausage fingers and blunt nails as he tries to clip everything onto his chest as neatly as possible. Spock doesn’t offer his help, so Jim supposes he isn’t doing too badly.

Once he is done, he and Spock grab their PADDs and go over their intel. The Federation isn’t meant to forge an alliance with a planet unless at least 70% of the population is in favour of joining. They need to change the minds of twenty-six percent of the global population. Jim is known for working miracles, but he has the feeling that the Federation will need several diplomatic meetings before they are anywhere near adding Samasun to the Federation’s official list of planets.

“Well,” he sighs, then gives Spock a lopsided smile. “Let’s punch it, then.”

The summit makes it into Jim’s list of Worst Things Ever in record time. Spock and he are introduced as guests of honour, but Jim feels more like a sacrificial lamb. Almost half of the people present flatten their antennae at the sight of them, which the reports on Samasunean body language said is not a good sign. Jim talks with everyone, but most conversations feel like an inquisition.

Even those who are in favour of joining Starfleet badger him with questions. At some point during the afternoon he begins deflecting the harder ones toward Spock, who doesn’t mind at all until one of the dignitaries who picked them up—Chiovi, Jim thinks—joins them with a drink. That’s when Spock clams up and Jim remembers how unusually tight-lipped he was during the ride to the summit. He forgot to ask about it when they were alone before, but he won’t make the same mistake again. Something about the dignitaries, Chiovi in particular, is putting Spock off; Jim wants to know why and if he can solve it.

For the time being, he puts some distance between himself and the dignitary, pouring all his efforts into chatting up the ambassadors from the anti-Federation nations. He is very careful not to look like he’s avoiding anyone, which is taxing. Jim is used to being honest about these things. He’s the sort of person who tells you he’ll block you on his comm, then blocks you.

The meeting inevitably drags on. By the time they return to the backroom to get their suitcase and head to their guest apartments, Jim is ready to tear his hair out. He likes to think that he navigated the summit with success, all things considered. Now he needs to navigate the minefield that talking to Spock sometimes can be.

Spock enters the apartments they were given first, setting the suitcase down on a small table with a vase full of what looks like a cross between water lilies and roses. Jim leans against the closed door, letting out a long breath. He rubs the bridge of his nose, then straightens and straightens out his jacket.

“Okay.” Jim steps further into the room, carding a hand through his hair. There is a moment of hesitance before Jim makes up his mind. “Spock?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good job out there,” he says, and he means it, “except for the part where you forgot to be nice.”

Spock doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that for a whole second, then his shoulders tense with the righteous offence so familiar to Jim. He turns his body to Jim, taking a step away from the table as if expecting to be tackled and not wanting the vase and flowers to become collateral damage. His eyebrows are an unhappy chevron upon his brow.

“My behaviour was politically correct,” Spock says, which coming from him is the same as admitting that he calculated how much of a dick he could be to everyone in the room without repercussions and then went on to prove his hypothesis.

Jim’s first reaction is to laugh, but he ends up pinching his nose instead. “Being politically correct isn’t the same as being nice,” he says, then exhales slowly, reminding himself that he is indeed a patient creature and especially so when it comes to Spock. “Okay—so you did nothing wrong.”

A way out. Technically, Spock didn’t, so he can say as much and Jim will let him off the hook. No egos were hurt, no one seemed to take Spock’s behaviour to heart, so Jim doesn’t have a leg to stand on if he insists. Except he knows Spock, and Spock knows Jim knows him, and they both know that Spock was acting off today.

Spock says nothing. Jim crosses his arms and just looks at him. With each second that ticks by, Jim can feel his face muscles settling into what Bones calls his ‘Mister Captain’ look—all wise and calm but with an undertone of steel, and creepily blank. Jim wishes he didn’t have to use it on Spock. He has never had to, before now, and it seems silly having to do it because Spock was a bit acerbic to the ambassadors from a planet where half its population doesn’t even want them there.

Then again, acting like that with the people they’re supposed to be sweetening up is very counterproductive. Jim is sure Spock knows this, so he wonders why Spock wouldn’t give but his very best during a mission. He always does, even when he has his reservations.

“I extend to you my apologies, Captain.” Spock clasps his hands behind his back, his eyes fixed on Jim’s Starfleet insignia. “Vulcans consider bonds to be hallowed, and we  revere them with the proportionally adequate amount of respect such a significant cultural aspect of our civilisation merits. We do not speak of them in vain.”

Jim stares at him uncomprehendingly before he remembers. The talk on the vehicle. Jim’s comment and Chiovi’s response. _Fuck._ “Are you saying I blasphemed something you hold sacred?”

“You did not speak of Vulcan bonds, hence there was no reason for my negative response. It was out of place and, worse still, highly illogical.” He gives a quick bow, still not looking at Jim. “I apologise for it and will strive not to repeat my mistake.”

“You don’t have to apologise for that, Spock. If anything, _I’m_ sorry, because I did talk about Vulcan bonds. I just thought it’d be nice in a sort of cheesy way if I said our species were bonded or something. I know of Vulcan bonds but I don’t know, you know, _about_ them. The dos and don’ts.” Jim scrubs a hand down his face and then runs it through his hair, turning his cowlick into a porcupine. “Sorry. I don’t really know what I was thinking when I said all that.”

But that’s a lie, because Jim knows exactly what he was thinking. He has always been intrigued by the concept of bonding, of the joining of the minds. Over the years, his interest in it has only grown, and lately it has morphed into a sort of longing—he wants to feel the edges of Spock’s mind click against his own, not because they need to communicate non-verbally or transfer heaps of information in a millisecond, but because they want to have their minds click together.

Jim sighs. He knows it’s unlikely that will ever happen. All the times they have melded so far, Jim has felt Spock’s undercurrent of dread, small but constant. That should have clued Jim in to the fact that what they have been doing is wrong: Vulcans aren’t supposed to meld so casually.

“Captain,” Spock says with the tone that is both an apology and a request for Jim to stop being so Human. Jim raises a hand to stop whatever Spock wants to say. At first Spock closes his mouth, but then he speaks anyway, “Perhaps we should both simply accept each other’s apologies and move on to other matters.”

“All right.” Jim smiles. “Sounds good.”

Spock nods, letting his hands fall back to his sides. “Chancellor Breino has suggested an eating house with traditional local dishes, although all culinary preparations will be both traditional and local to us. I refrained from informing the Chancellor of this since I surmised she would not have appreciated the remark.”

Jim laughs, soft and warm with the tender amusement that Spock stirs in him. He claps his First Officer on the shoulder once, the contact solid and short. Then lets his hand drop, his palm appearing to burn with the ghost of the well-defined body hiding under Spock’s dress jacket.

“Good call.”

“If none of the dignitaries have requested your company tonight,” Spock continues, hesitance flashing across his face, “then I propose that we head out together to procure our evening nourishment at this place Chancellor Breino mentioned.”

Jim knows he shouldn’t, but he beams at Spock anyway. “Sure, just let me change.”

He rips off his jacket with a little too much zeal, the tunic and trousers following. By the time he’s back in his command goldens, Spock is pulling his own science blues over the black of his undershirt. Jim approves. Casual dress for a casual outing. _Date,_ the part of Jim’s mind that remains a giggling tween supplies. Jim flicks the thought away with a well-practised mental slap.

“Hang the man who thought of formalwear.”

“That would be the French,” Spock says.

Jim gives a startled laugh. “I’m not sure that’s an accurate historical fact, Mister Spock.”

“Russia, then.” The look Spock shoots him is all amusement. “It would be a logical conclusion, seeing how Mister Chekov has reminded us plenty of times that everything which comes from Earth was invented in his country of origin.”

Jim laughs again, his smile too wide and his eyes too fond, but he can’t bring himself to stop. “Quite,” he agrees, haphazardly folding down his dress uniform and piling it up inside the suitcase. Spock lies his own suit next to Jim’s, a lot neater and with all his medals resting on top. Jim left his pinned; there’s a chance they’ll have to go to another meeting before leaving, and he has no wish to struggle with the damn things again. The suitcase shuts with a clack, and Jim turns to Spock.

“All right, so—where to?”

* * *

 The place Chancellor Breino recommended looks like a barn riddled with bushes and vines. Jim’s description isn’t very flattering, but the building is actually beautiful, sitting at the top of a hill, with a high vaulted ceiling and large windows to look over the city lights glittering amidst the trees. He can see why the Chancellor suggested they go to that specific establishment. It is also a popular choice amongst the natives, apparently, because it’s full to bursting when they arrive.

He isn’t sure how or when Spock managed to make a reservation, but he’s pleased that he did when they are ushered to a table for two, foregoing the waiting line altogether. Jim takes a seat and peers at the centerpiece, a small pot with crystals and thin flowers. Sulu would love it. He wonders if he can convince the restaurant owners to give it to him as a souvenir.

“Is this plant life?” Jim asks, touching one of the crystals.

“Mineral,” Spock replies.

The waiter hands them each a menu, written with ink and paper. Jim wonders at the strange texture of the sheets for a moment. He is sure he has felt it before, but he can’t remember where. After a moment, he realises—it’s the paper the replicators aboard the _Enterprise_ produce.

“Synthetic.”

“Indeed,” Spock says. “The Samasuneans value their vegetation.”

“Maybe we could use that as an argument in our favour.” Jim strokes his chin. “Tell them the Federation is invested in the preservation of all life forms and ecosystems, turn the galaxy into a safe haven for all species, whether self-aware or not—with lots of glossing over all the havoc Humans wreaked over our own planet’s environment.”

“We have already stated that as our goal,” Spock points out, “but perhaps a more concise approach focusing only on that will yield better results. We must take care with our wording, however. It would be unfortunate if the Samasuneans misunderstood our exploratory and peace-keeping policy for a veil which conceals an imperialistic empire.”

“We should definitely ask Uhura to help us come up with some phrases that won’t get their meanings lost in translation no matter what. The Samasuneans sound a bit awkward, don’t you think?”

“It may be that the Universal Translator is having a hard time converting their native language into Standard. This sector of the quadrant is mostly unchartered and so there may be new linguistic parameters that the tool’s equations are struggling to sort out.”

“Yeah, probably.” Jim nods. “I’ll send her a comm-text.”

Jim pulls out his comm and flips it open, thinking that he’s the biggest dullard in the galaxy because, really, what kind of idiot mentions his date’s ex when they’re having dinner? Except Spock isn’t Jim’s date, he reminds himself ruthlessly, so he can mention Uhura as much as he wants. Maybe he can even ask Spock if they’re back together.

While Jim types the message, Spock orders their drinks and, after Jim gives him the go-ahead, an appetiser. Jim presses send just as the waiter comes back with a bottle of what he calls mushroom liquor. Jim watches with morbid curiosity as the greenish liquid fills his glass, then smiles politely until the waiter leaves. The moment he isn’t likely to be caught pulling a face, he picks up the container and sniffs at it like a man going to his death.

Jim stares down in surprise when he recognises a scent very similar to that of traditional Terran beer. A tiny sip confirms his suspicions, and he sighs with relief before taking a long gulp. He thumps his chest, setting down the glass. Across the table, Spock is staring at him with amusement plain in his features, lips barely curled in a teasing smirk. A wave of hotness crawls up Jim’s neck.

“You knew this tastes like beer?”

“Affirmative.” Spock leans back and entwines his fingers. Instead of launching into an explanation of how he found out as well as why the mushroom liquor and beer have a similar taste to the Human palate, he says, “I am glad that you find it pleasing.”

“Super,” Jim affirms, forgetting for one moment that he is supposed to be an adult and not an overexcitable toddler. But Spock has always had this way of making him feel calm yet giddy, so Jim won’t be losing sleep over this tiny lapsus. “Thanks. I’ve missed non-replicated Terran drinks. Terran stuff in general, you know how it is.” _Probably better than me,_ he thinks, suddenly feeling like both of his feet are stuffed in his mouth, because Spock does know better than anyone what it is to miss your home planet. “Anyway, thanks.”

“Thanks are unnecessary, Jim.” Spock pauses long enough to watch Jim grin at the use of his name, which is a common reaction so Jim doesn’t have to hide it. Reaching for his own glass, Spock adds in a tone so drab that it fools no one, “I hope it will further please you to know that unlike the synthehol available on the ship, mushroom liquor is capable of rendering a non-moderate imbiber drunk.”

Jim gives Spock a look. “Did you just allow me to get wasted?”

“Not at present,” Spock says. “I have, however, secured the purchase of another bottle of mushroom liquor, which you will find in your possession once we return to the _Enterprise_ , and which you may drink at your own pace and discretion.”

“God, I love you,” says Jim, because he’s hopeless and an idiot.

Before he can convince himself that Spock’s face has gone all soft with the three little words, he babbles something about liking the decor and lets the rest of the conversation progress toward safer topics. By the time the appetiser arrives, he has almost stopped screaming at himself in his head.

“Only one plate?” he asks, confused.

The waiter wiggles his antennae and then stills them. “Oh, yes, sir,” he says. “This particular dish is meant for sharing.” He sets down two smaller plates, one in front of Spock and the other in front of Jim, and points at the appetiser resting between them. It looks like a teal salad with a pink flan in the middle. “You serve each other your helpings. There is enough for one each.”

“Oh, I see,” Jim says. “Well, thank you. It looks delicious.”

The waiter bows and goes away. Jim looks down at the dish. Bones always tells him not to trust food that has strange colours, but Jim doubts Spock would have ordered something that might cause him an allergic reaction. He picks up his spoon—which looks more like a tiny shovel than anything—and pokes at the pudding, which promptly pops and oozes onto the salad.

“Crap.” Jim tries to shovel the pudding back into shape but only succeeds in making a bigger mess. “Is this fucking thing even _cooked_ —”

He cuts himself off abruptly when Spock grabs his own spoon and begins pushing the salad around, getting it even more mixed with the creamy remains of the pudding. Jim glances at Spock. His First Officer doesn’t seem the tiniest bit fazed by the cultural crime they are probably committing.

“Spock, what,” Jim says slowly, “are you doing?”

“Mixing the ingredients.” Spock continues to move his spoon around. “The flan is actually a sauce, meant to collapse onto the salad in order to season it.”

“How do you even know that?”

“Chancellor Breino was most informative.”

“Right.” Jim sniffs and pretends to be offended. Now that he knows he can, he begins mixing with zeal. “I slave away playing diplomat and you make small talk with the Chancellor. Typical. Why do I always have to do everything in this relationship?”

Spock raises an eyebrow at Jim from across the table. He opens his mouth to deliver what is sure to be a fatal blow to Jim’s pride, but then Jim’s comm whistles, cutting him off. A bit vexed at the interruption, Jim picks it up and unlocks the screen. Uhura’s name pops up, along with a message alert. He taps on her name.

What are you doing on your comm?

He gives his comm a blank look before typing, Giving you orders because I’m your captain?

You’re at dinner  
Put the comm away

You put the comm away

PUT THE COMM AWAY

He grumbles something unflattering and sets the comm down. He shoots an apologetic look at Spock just as his comm whistles again. Jim checks it—he’s the captain of a freaking flagship; he can’t afford to ignore his comm—and scowls at Uhura’s newest message: Pay attention!

“Your girlfriend’s bullying me,” Jim says, shoving the comm into his pocket.

“Pardon me?”

“Uhura,” Jim clarifies. “She’s being annoying.”

“Nyota is not my romantic partner,” Spock says, apparently hung up on that. He looks scandalised by the mere thought. Jim thinks he only needs to drop his cutlery to complete the image of utter shock. “Our current relationship is strictly platonic.”

“I know.”

“We ceased to be involved before arriving on Starbase Yorktown for the first time.”

“I _know_. I mean, I didn’t know, I wasn’t sure, but now I am.” Jim gives Spock a thumbs-up. “Which is cool. Hate being out of the loop.” After a beat, he asks, because he has no filter, “How’re you holding up with that?”

Spock blinks. “Nyota an I parted on good terms. There was some tension initially, but we soon adapted to the new dynamics of our interrelation.”

“That’s”—Jim searches for a word—“good. Messy break-ups are, well, messy.”

Instead of replying, Spock picks up his fork with his free hand. He goes on to lift some of the seasoned salad and set it on Jim’s plate, which reminds Jim of what the waiter said about the dish. Jim imitates Spock, and they put food in each other’s plates until the plate in the middle is emptied.

Jim leans back against his seat, feeling inexplicably proud, and beams at Spock. His First Officer returns the smile, although his display is a lot more subdued, almost imperceptible, but Jim is well-trained in reading Spock’s expressions. He isn’t an open book, but he’s easier to read than he was when they first met, which isn’t something that happens to everyone who deals with Spock.

Spock looks down, suddenly interested in his cutlery. Jim clears his throat and rubs his nose. He needs to tone it down with the long gazes and bright smiles. Spock may not be in touch with his emotions as much as the average Human, but he is no stranger to the way a person in love looks.

“All right, let’s try this,” Jim says, a bit louder than necessary, and tucks in without looking up.

The rest of the dinner passes in a blur. In the future, Jim will only remember flashes of it—ordering and eating his main dish, refilling Spock’s glass, plucking a flower from the centerpiece and tucking it behind his ear. He wanted to tuck it behind Spock’s ear. That had been the plan all along, but then he got cold feet. Jim will always bemoan not having done it. The plus side is that Spock talks to the waiter and the waiter talks to someone, and so when they leave the restaurant it is one bottle of mushroom liquor bottle and one fancy Samasunean centerpiece richer.

They decide to walk back to their apartments. Jim carries both of the evening’s prizes, laughing at anything Spock says and using anything as an excuse to lean in and bump their shoulders. He can blame it on the alien beer, even if he had just the one glass. He is, after all, a lightweight. Bones can confirm it.

At some point, Spock helps Jim steady himself after a particularly overacted stumble. Jim lets out a loud chortle, starting to feel drunk just from faking it, and the sound peters out when Spock doesn’t immediately step back. The hand that brushes against his lower back is tender, and Jim takes the tiniest of steps to the side, bumping gently into Spock’s side. Spock picks up on the action and says nothing, moving until his arm is curved around Jim’s back and his hand is cupping his waist. Jim hugs the bottle and centerpiece to his chest, smiling at the ground.

The rest of the walk is quiet.

Spock’s touch seems to have purged Jim of his hystrionics, and so he enjoys the opportunity to observe the planet Samasun up-close. It’s really amazing during nighttime, and he’s glad they have the time to see it. Jim—or rather Captain Kirk—doesn’t often have time to sightsee when he’s on away missions, much less if they’re of the diplomatic kind. He thanks his lucky stars that he and Spock could manage dinner out. It’s a rare luxury. Their hosts were very gracious in letting them have the evening to themselves; that doesn’t usually happen.

This time it’s Jim who goes into their apartments first. He sets the mushroom liquor and centerpiece next to the suitcase. Behind him, he can hear Spock moving farther into the room. Jim drums a mindless rhythm onto the tabletop with his fingers. He feels as if he were on the edge of something; he isn’t sure if it’s a starting point, a finish line, or a precipice. He is, however, willing to find out.

“This was fun,” Jim says, then grins at Spock. “Kinda wish all missions were like this.”

That’s not really what he wants to say. What he wants to say is: _Kinda wish all missions were with you. Kinda wish this wouldn’t end. Kinda wish we’d grab dinner together more often, always, for ever._ He doesn’t say any of those things, of course. He just looks at Spock until he can’t bear it anymore, even though he knows he’ll never tire of looking at him.

“I cannot promise the level of pleasantness of upcoming assignments,” Spock says.

“God, Spock, I know. Don’t sweat it. I was just saying—this was fun. Right? We should do it again sometime.” Jim watches his finger trace patterns on the tabletop. “If you want.”

There is silence for a moment.

“Jim,” Spock’s voice sounds strangely earnest, “I would want nothing more than to have dinner with you again. I shall endeavour to make our second date as gratifying.”

“Yeah, I—” Jim whips his head up. “What?”

“Is something the matter?”

“Second date?” Jim’s pulse speeds up. “ _Date_?”

“Yes,” Spock says, his expression becoming guarded. “That was the purpose of tonight’s dinner. Were you not aware?”

“No. I thought it was, you know, just dinner.”

“Captain, the dinner we had tonight,” Spock tells him very slowly, “was romantic in nature. Your actions led me to believe you understood this and were in agreeance.”

“Oh.” Jim rubs a hand over his mouth. He should feel ecstatic, but instead he just feels like a bomb is about to go off in his face. Like the bubble’s going to burst at any second. “I mean, we’ve had dinner together before so I didn’t think this was any different. Which is okay. Different’s good. I like different.”

“You did not accept to meet me for a romantic meal yesterday,” Spock says, which is definitely not what Jim was expecting him to say at all. More quietly, Spock adds, “I thought it an appropriate course of action to ask you again today, even if I risked your finding me obnoxious.”

“What? Obnoxious? No, Spock, the idea’s just— No. I’d never. I mean, you annoy the heck out of me sometimes, but no. I could never be irritated by this, trust me,” Jim walks up to Spock. His First Officer is standing near the door to his room, back ramrod straight and hands flat against his thighs. “What do you mean you asked me yesterday? I don’t remember that, and I’m sure I would if it had happened.”

“I asked you to lunch.”

Jim frowns. That’s not how it went. “No, you said you’d procured your meal already.”

“I said I had procured yours.”

Jim stares, then his eyes narrow with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

Spock’s lips actually twist into a grimace, as if he had tasted lemon. “I asked if you had procured nourishment for yourself, you said ‘no’ and inquired whether I had, to which I replied in the affirmative, to which you responded by—”

“Unwittingly turning you down in the most assholish way possible. Oh, my God.” Jim’s hands fly to his head. He can feel his face flushing. “Bones was right.”

Spock blinks. “Pardon me?”

“He was right,” Jim says again, pointing at Spock. “You were flirting with me!”

“While I understand standard Human vernacular deems the expression ‘to flirt’ suitable for my actions, I find it inadequate. I assure you, Captain, that there is nothing playful about my romantic advances toward your person. The relationship I wish to establish with you would be of a kind that is more enduring than a casual dalliance.” Spock’s chin tilts down just enough to let the seriousness of his words bleed into his posture. “Far more enduring.”

Jim stops at that. All of him just stops—body, mind, and soul. He gives Spock a weird look, hands coming up to cup his cheeks in an attempt to cool them down. “Not trying to be blasphemous again or anything, but is this a bond talk? Is that what you’re saying? Because that’s what I’m hearing.”

“A bond would be the desired outcome,” Spock admits.

And Jim already knows, but he needs to hear it. “Outcome of what?”

Spock averts his gaze. “Dating.”

“Oh, my God,” Jim says again. A million interactions flash before him like a film, and he hides behind his hands when he realises Spock has been dropping hints for months. “It took me this long to notice. I’m such an idiot. I’m the worst.”

“You were indeed more obtuse than I had predicted,” Spock agrees.

“I am offended but also very sorry. And so amazed by how patient you were. Jesus, I would’ve punched me in the mouth after the third insensitive rejection.”

“I was aware that you had not noticed my advances. Taking offence to the point of inflicting bodily harm upon the object of my affections over something you were not doing purposefully would have been highly illogical and dishonourable.” Spock’s lips thin into a line. “Captain—”

“Jim.”

“Jim,” Spock says, and Jim grins like the fool he is. “I understand your perplexity when confronted by the revelation that I harbour feelings for your, but I would deeply appreciate a response other than your current flailing.”

“What?”

“You may postpone your actual decision if you so wish, of course,” Spock hurries to say.

“No, I don’t— Spock, my flailing is my reply.”

One dark eyebrow rises. “Indeed?”

Jim flails his arms for emphasis. Then he gives a sauntering hop that he hopes manages to be cute and silly and a little bit sexy, a playful smirk on his face. Spock watches his approach with delight and anticipation sparkling in the dark pools of his eyes. Before he can chicken out, Jim grabs Spock by the shoulders and smacks their lips together. Their noses bump and Jim snorts, tilting his head to avoid the awkward press. Spock’s hand, suddenly on his jaw, helps him get the angle just right.

All angles are just right, in fact. Jim and Spock weren’t born to fit in each other’s arms—that’s something reserved for kids and their mothers. Yet their bodies seem to melt into each other, like two drops of mercury coming together, until Jim can feel Spock’s heartbeat somewhere near his stomach and the silky brush of Spock’s thick eyelashes against his cheekbone. It feels so strange and so new.

Jim hugs Spock even closer, smiling into the kiss when two arms wrap around him, one hand settling in his lower back and the other fanning out over the space between his shoulder blades. He didn’t know kissing could be this amazing. He has enjoyed his past experiences, sure, but nothing comes anywhere near smooching Spock. Maybe it’s because he’s wanted to do it for so long, but Jim doubts it will feel any different a hundred kisses from this first one. God, he hopes there will be a hundred more kisses. He hopes there will be innumerable other kisses.

Spock pulls back, his hand curling into a fist against Jim’s neck. “You are projecting.”

“Your shields are down,” Jim retorts.

“Restraint is not expected in this kind of situation,” Spock defends himself. “A level of intimacy that involves freedom to touch lacks the need for the shielding of minds.”

“Nothing-to-hide type of deal?”

“Absolute mutual trust.”

“I trust you,” Jim says.

“And I you.”

Jim presses his case, “I’ve already let you into my head a few times.”

Spock nods, his breath tickling Jim’s cheek. “Although I must point out that every time you did, you felt dread.”

“I was just so panicked you’d find out I liked you.”

“I was already aware that you held me in a positive regard.”

“I mean like-like, don’t play dumb. You felt dread too anyway, I could tell.”

“The reasons behind my own disquiet were the same as yours, unsurprisingly enough.” Spock gives him a wry smile. “Evidence would suggest that neither of us can face being rebuffed by the other.”

Jim thinks about that. He told Bones that he would die if Spock turned him down. That’s true enough. But it wasn’t rejection what he feared. He feared Spock transferring out, or ending their friendship, or putting an end to their interactions outside duty altogether. Most of all, he feared losing what he and Spock already had just because he was selfish and wanted more. He kisses Spock below his pointed ear.

“Good thing no one’s rejecting anyone.” He takes a step back. Spock’s arms loosen around him but still hold him by the waist as Jim cups Spock’s face. He bites his lip, grinning. “I had a lot of fun in our date.”

“I found it extremely to my liking as well.”

“The second date’s on me. No, don’t. I’m calling dibs. I’ll plan a kick-ass date, you’ll see. To make up for all the other dates we could’ve had so far but didn’t because I’m dumb.”

Spock looks like he wants to say something, his eyebrows furrowed. Jim puts an end to that by starting another kiss. He knows the solution is temporary, but he can’t think of a better way to get Spock to stop talking for a minute.

“Projecting,” Spock mumbles against Jim’s mouth.

Well, maybe not a minute. Jim chuckles. “We’ll work on that.”

“I do not mind,” Spock assures him. “You are simply too loud. Moreover, I do not wish to intrude upon your privacy. I am aware that Humans often struggle with the idea of having a mental connection which leaves them… exposed.”

“I don’t mind being exposed to you,” Jim purrs. Thank the universe; he was beginning to worry his capacity to be suave had left him for good. “But like I said, we’ll work on that.” He plucks Spock’s right hand from his waist and raises it between them, offering him his own right hand’s index and middle fingers. “We’ve got time.”

Spock’s hand mirrors Jim’s. Their fingers touch with a zing that tingles all the way to Jim’s toes.

“Plenty,” Spock agrees.


End file.
